The strokes are dreamt permanent,the only lasting demarcations of claiming existence,and the collective artists who painted them majored in Biology,or Accounting, or English and Professional Writing, or dropped out as so many do when they wake up.

The poet paints them into existence with his words: “ideas are illusions, and all words are untrue.” And we nod our heads and sip our coffees, indeed,put a price to labors and words and even to thoughtsbecause we no longer want freedom if it costs us the freedomof saving face and keeping pace with the ebb and flow of market equilibriums and unemployment tides.

We are a limited people,staring at barren white walls white walls white walls; Feeling nothing but existence, and remember nothingexcept that I once considered my heart whole and unfettered, that even these austere facades will recede into anonymity.

I never once claimed to exist. To use language is to limit one’s self to modes of perception already inherent to that language. So I never speak unless spoken to, and then only to agree.

The Voice of a City

The lights, they trip and fall around mewith all the grace and majesty of heart flutters, polyrhythmicstrokes outlining skyscrapers and the common man even as I walk.

And all I can do is stare as we picnic in the streets and rest our heads in ‘fragile’ homes -this side up-

It’s cold outside. Seven people huddling together for rent, imagining we are seeing something beautiful, rather than breathtaking,through these sterile, fingerprint littered glass lenses (fogging with every meticulously counted exhale).

one.

I stood alone.

Smothered in a crowded tunnel, I stood like a starved wolfwaiting on time as the afternoon awaits the guiding neon lightsthat lead us to intoxicated runways we never take off from;

two.

Finding beauty in the nuance of language and hearing ruin upon a graffitied tongue:The smoky rasp of wrappers crinkling and bottles shattering upon blacktops and at bus stops, spilling out into the tracks, breaking needles just before the train pulls into the station an emergency stop too late;

three.

The voice of a city, defaced with disjointed identities and obscenities,daydreaming of night, a moments respite from high-heeled conversation,weight loss pill cleared throats before and after the clang of fork on glass,shotgun subtlety trigger in hand, in mouth, card distribution: pre business casual suffocation – Windsor knot decorating a ceiling fan like a present on Christmas when you asked for coal.

four.

I can sell you lies so good, you’ll sell yourself.

breathe.

Yes, I am daydreaming of night.When greens and yellows and reds glow with a life of their own upon glassspeckled in a clinging mist that leaves everything to the imagination; We populate foreboding alleyways with our minds - shadows and secrets and sex - strip malls down with visibly shaking hands, bare their steel bones to an unhealthy relationship.

The voice of a city, identities and obscenities nightdreaming of bleach in languages foreign only to each other.

I stand surrounded, suffocated, exhausted, kerchief to mouth resuscitation, legless and numb, knowing only that I truly know nothing.

It is in this moment I come to the realization I’ve never felt more alone.

heated arguments with car alarms, doors always set to lock when slammed, reach out to catch the fringes of my soul stuck between two pieces of cold steel.

You can only stitch something back on so many times before you start to lose feeling.

No Glory On This Side of the Hole

So you drown, drown, drown under the sea of debts unpaid and wages lost in wardrobe wrecks and oral sex and bounced checks annexing the futuresof that delinquent lying face down at the bottom of a rust-stained pool.

You do this and I’ll be lost, sometimes,because if you don’t get lost every once in a whileyou’ll never give yourself the opportunity to be found;you’ll miss your chance to be inspiration for a dying art. I am dying art.

I lay on a drying rack, my arms hanging off the sides,blinking away that damned sun that always rises before meexclaiming from the pulpits and the newspaper crier's throat that another day is coming, but never that another day is forever gone.

I) The numbering in the second section, 'The Voice of a City', would you mind giving me insight into what you take it to be? Does it seem out of place? Is their use as points of transition distracting or detracting?II) The third section, 'The Only Shrine: Sunbathers', does it have its place in the piece, or does it come across as disconnected?III) Does this piece come across more as a narrative, or as poetic licensing?IV) Strengths? Weaknesses? Comments of decryment or jubilation?

This was absolutely beautiful. The Voice of a City really, really showed an immense level of imaging, and the way you wrote it out made the story sound just that much more perfect. The imagery, scenery and vision this created is fantastic. The Only Shrine, not much of a story but that is what makes it beautiful, is that last line, that mends together perfectly the 7 lines before it. No Glory On This Side of the Hole, humourous title it may be, it conveyed a whole different topic than I was expecting. I was not expecting it to be that political, and in depth. All of these, are raw in their own special ways, but still amazing in overall terms. Bravo.

This was breathlessly beautiful! The way you made the words flow was miraculous. The detail in the story made visioning it most easy. Then the stanza when you wrote, "The lights, they trip and fall around mewith all the grace and majesty of heart flutters, polyrhythmicstrokes outlining skyscrapers and the common man even as I walk."was I think my favorite because I can relate almost and I could picture it very clearly. Job Very Well Done I can honestly say being on DeviantArt for this time, I can say that your work was the most amazing in detail and vision.The title of this was quite humorous and made me wonder what the poems was about but reading it took my breath away. Very Very Good Job.

the skill in this is just amazing. the rhythm is perfect - the poem seems to take on a life of its own as you read it, and i think in that way you've perfectly captured the life and movement of a city, while at the same time managing to convey a sense of stagnation and helplessness. the images are visceral and beautiful. and i love the internal rhymes

Coming from such an accomplished writer - especially one whose works (the featured pieces quite poignant and certainly contemporary and boundary testing, or, at least those I came across during DLD's time and the few DDs I remember) I have oft admired from afar - it means more than I (a self-acclaimed poet?) can put words to.

This was amazing- overall I just love your way with words, the style expressed through each section.

Each section brought new light to the poem while flowing from one line to the next beautifully. (Personally, the first two 'sections' were my favorite, but each was well written and basically, beautiful.

Thank you for saying so, it means a lot that you were able to get so much out of it and enjoy the way the words found themselves. I would say that 'new light' is one of the few things I don't find in the urban lifestyle, but to hear someone finding it in my observations is a elating testament.

You do this and I’ll be lost, sometimes,because if you don’t get lost every once in a whileyou’ll never give yourself the opportunity to be found;you’ll miss your chance to be inspiration for a dying art. I am dying art.

I will read this entire work once a day for a week, and I know that I will be drawn in by a different aspect of it on each of these days.

Regarding the third section - it has its place, in my humble opinion. Why not, because 'nothing lasts' anyway.

I still don't feel experienced enough to know how to give a proper critique, but I enjoyed this very much. I believe that I recently joined one of the groups that you are an admin (at least) of, and am grateful for that as well. Congratulations on your DD!

Good sir, just the knowledge that it struck a chord with you tells me more than I could ever ask for (and believe you me, that experience will come quite quickly with the rate that you are getting involved and reading piece here on dA).

But yes, I had the pleasure of welcoming you to theWrittenRevolution which I admin at, I hope it proves tro provide you a great forum for improving your writing, good sir.

Emotive response: pity, revulsion and connection... I get it, and I have mirrored the same thoughts about city life and the futility of this modern progressivism that has been swallowed whole, people striving for dreams, conned into thinking survival is living... (shakes head and pulls back a bit....)

I The numbering changes up the rhythm but makes perfect sense in the context of the piece... a brilliant bit.II Yes... it describes a reality that many try to simply walk over around or ignore.... it belongs here... as it is a part of the city scape.III Poetic and this is good... IV Technically, I am astonished and pleased. There is so much metaphor and lyrical rolling to the way this is written... I started reading the thumbnail and got sucked in... I think the stutter feel is apropos and I like the way images flash and shimmer, like a dream scape moving and connected but each section feels unrelated at the same time... well done and aptly titled. Your imagery is clear and you take the reader with a frankness into the reality behind the fantasy of city night life and the ideals of "success" It's a good piece... You deserve the DD.

The American Dream: it's funny how long history takes to realize when ideals and identities have moved on, isn't it? People are strange creatures in how much pride we place in days long past and that truly had nothing to do with us.

But yes, thank you very much.

I'm glad that my snapshots could captivate you so and that you found the meanings in the writing on the wall. Some people look at it as vandalism - writings on the wall, that is. Some, as art. But, since before there were 'walls' to write on, I think it is just identity - some semblance of permanence. A snapshot of existing beyond one's self, until the state, or time, or innovation washes the stain of people away.

It's always a pleasure to see a comment from you, Miss Eve, that newfangled badge next to your name just looks so much like it belongs there. Elated to see that the community decided to bestow it upon someone who so truly earned it.

It is always humbling to see a message from you on here, good sir, and for it to bestow such praise - the best.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that I don't feel very critical, just cognizant and observant. I'm still just a drop - but the oceans weren't built in rivers, no, they were built in drops. I enjoy being a drop.

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLR (Daily Literature Recognition) in a news article that can be found here. Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by ing the News Article.